The Shooting (24 page)

Then immediately after or hours later or it could even be days or weeks later, he and his wife stand on the sidewalk outside the hospital with air blowing over their faces and through their hair with no son. What is air but theft and murder? For every breath they take is one that Clayton does not. He sees Clayton everywhere. He tells her to stay there, then wanders into traffic. It is heavy traffic, major Manhattan avenue though he does not know which one, he is unsure where he is. She does not stop him, just watches as the cabs all swerve and slam their brakes in the darkness. All around them darkness. What day is it? Is it night or early morning? How long has it been? He stands in the yellow beams of the headlights coming toward him. He will let them crush him if that is what they want.

The people stagger around muttering, —I can't believe it, I just can't, it is so horrible, it's unreal, I just saw him, he was just here, why does this keep happening, why won't somebody
do
something?

His home is filled with people—all their friends from the neighborhood, many of the building residents, at least those who have not fled to second apartments or vacation homes to escape the hoopla—it is filled with people but void of the one who matters and therefore the home is empty. But more than that—it is sinister and everything is pointless. The people are not Clayton and so they are no one. His relationships with them all are founded on constructs that existed only because of Clayton, which means they no longer make sense. He does not like that they are all here, but he does not care enough about anything to bother turning them away.

She sleeps in Clayton's bed, in the dark, mercifully entombed in the effects of sedatives. The pills were part of the hospital's all-inclusive grief and loss package. Your dead child, your police interrogation, your grief liaison, your medications—good-bye, come again. She sleeps, he plays host. It is something he can do and it is maybe better than the other option, which is swallowing all the sedatives at once. He stands there saying hello to those who come, thanks them for coming, shakes their hands, hugs them if they hug him first, nods at whatever they say, tells them Clayton loved them though he recognizes none of them—he knows their names and who they are, yes, and the things they have shared, of course he does, these are his friends; he trusts them, they are what he and his wife and Clayton have had in place of family here—but he does not recognize them anymore or know why they are their friends, and the reason he does not recognize them is because they all wear the mask of Clayton. He offers these once-family now-strangers a drink from the sodas people have brought, scares up more chairs for them to sit in, directs the endless parade of Clayton-aged boys delivering flowers and food, boys who live while Clayton does not. He and she will never eat it. They will never water the flowers. They can nurture nothing. They could not keep Clayton alive so how dare they try to fool themselves that they can keep a flower alive, or their own bodies?

The once-friends now-strangers here include contractors he has worked with—Ken, Victor, Marlon, Buley—and former residents who moved out long ago but now return to express their grief and show support—Dilbert and Janet, Danielle—and the mailman Shaun and the UPS guy Frank and the owner of the Italian restaurant on the corner, Veronica, and several of her staff including her chef, Robert, and one of the busboys, Xiang, from China. Ahni and Paula and their kids are here, along with Sonny and Ben, Hassids who attend the synagogue across the street. Some of these people are black and others are white and some are gay and others straight. There are rich people, poor people; there are people who talk on TV and there are people who do not speak a word of English. A Babel of languages and cultures and lifestyles.
It is what he dreamed America would be but never was until now when he has lost everything.

Charlie corners him. Charlie is a landscape architect who lives in 6B and has a cable television show. Charlie hugs him and says, —Oh my God. The handyman does not know what to say to Charlie. But Dilbert and Janet are approaching him now, retired financial executives, white, a little drunk, especially Janet, and they tell him they own a condo on the Upper West Side that he and his wife may stay in, they should not have to stay
here.

—Thank you, he tells them, —but we go nowhere.

—What? Janet says, aghast. —But you
can't
stay!

He starts to explain himself, how this is his home, they live here, here is where Clayton lived, where Clayton's bedroom and his things are, but then he understands that this makes no sense to anyone but him and his wife and that Janet and Dilbert do not actually care whether he takes them up on their offer, all that is important to Janet and Dilbert is that they have thought of it. People need things from you when you lose it all. He gives Janet and Dilbert what they need. Takes their hands, tightens his face up into a grimace, looks deep into their eyes, then kisses their creamy white hands, which are like his hands when he was a doctor, and says, —Thank you,
thank
you.

Janet and Dilbert look like puppies given a biscuit, and one of the residents, an actress on Broadway and in movies, comes in from outside, excited, saying, —Do you have any idea what's going on outside right now? She turns on the TV. CNN. Live coverage of a city block on a pleasant late-summer day. —That's us! someone says. Only then does the handyman recognize it as outside the building. Media are everywhere. Onlookers. It looks like a movie shoot, a scene in a feature portraying media hysteria flocking to the scene of a spectacle: news vans, their microwave antennae stretching high into the air; coffee-clutching producers hurrying about; gorgeous white on-air talent in business casual leading the camera guy around and speculating.

But it quickly becomes clear that what has brought them all here is not what happened to Clayton but the power and charisma of a particular woman among them. She is the object of the cameras. She
could be another pretty reporter pulling people aside for interviews, and she is doing just that, she catches whoever emerges from the building's front door, but she is not doing it for news to report but to ask them, —What are you doing about this? Gun-owning white males are responsible for mass death and they must be left behind and they
will
be, but only if you start the tidal waves of change!

She is handing out sheets of paper. The network cameras are surrounding her, pushing their microphones close to her mouth.

—These are the phone numbers of your representatives.
Call
them!
Do
something! Call them right now! Write them letters! Show up! Bombard them! Tell them you will not stand for children being slaughtered so privileged white men can play cop! Tell them the lives of our children trump their so-called traditions! Tell them we must leave behind the reckless, bloodthirsty Second Amendment that trumps out children's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness! Tell them to vote in favor of the ammo tax or you will replace them with someone who will!

The woman's name appears on the screen: Jenny Sanders, Founder, Repeal the Second Amendment.

Now this woman is leading the hundreds of people gathered around her in chants, a sea of people compelled by her. —Justice for Clayton! she shouts.

Her mob echoes it: —
Justice for Clayton!

—Justice for Clayton!

—Justice for Clayton!

A boiling energy. Police are lined up on the perimeter in riot gear, they carry machine guns and wear body armor like soldiers; there are small armored personnel carriers. Then she has all these people chanting the word
justice
, over and over, pounding the word like a drum: —
Jus-tice, jus-tice...
It sends shivers down the spine. People's eyes are misty. —She'll get him, someone says, —she will.

The handyman looks over to the couch where Stacey sits. Hector's daughter, Clayton's girlfriend. The poor girl. She sits with Hector and Kenny, Clayton's best friend. She has her arms folded over her stomach, rocks back and forth. He goes to her, sits down beside her,
puts an arm around the young girl. She starts sobbing and puts her head on his shoulder and he pulls her close, wrapping her up. She sobs into his chest. He kisses the top of her head. The little child. Her little heart. —He loved you, he tells her, and she sobs harder. —And he knew you loved him too. You were his love, his love.

He puts one of his arms around Kenny too. Kisses Kenny's head. —He loved you too, Kenny. You were his brother. You'll always be his brother.

It is the first time today the handyman has known what he is saying, the first time he has said something and meant it.

On the television the woman has the crowd chanting, —Re-peal! Re-peal!

It means nothing to him. What can she do with her chants? What can she do for Clayton, what can she do for his wife? He squeezes Kenny again and hugs Hector then gets up, leaves them all, goes into Clayton's room and closes the door behind himself, locks it, lies down in Clayton's bed beside his wife.

He opens the door, answers the knock. It is Lucien. —Clayton, says Lucien. The handyman pushes past him, down the hall, up the stairs to the penthouse. Cops block the way. They pull guns on him. He pushes past. It is easy, all he has to do is be harder and tougher than he was the first time. He runs down Fisher's hallway and inside through the open door to where Clayton lies with his sneakers on and his hoodie covered in blood. The cops there try to stop him but he fights them off. Who knew he was so strong? He can lift them and throw them, he can make them disappear just by wanting it. He bends down to Clayton. Checks his pulse. Still alive. Rips open his hoodie; it tears easily, like paper. The handyman's hands are smooth as cream again. He is a doctor again. He can save Clayton. Runs his smooth hands over Clayton's flesh, smearing the blood, looking for the entry wounds. Finds them, sticks his fingers inside each one. He is so capable and effectual. He slides out the bullets from Clayton's body, wound by wound, and tosses each aside. When he plucks out the final one, Clayton coughs and opens his eyes very wide, and the doctor can see the life return to them like headlights approaching at
high speed. Clayton jolts and seizes. The doctor holds him. Clayton is very scared.

—There, there, the doctor tells him, —you will be okay. Lifts Clayton in his arms, carries him back down the hall to the elevator. Brings him home.

—Oh my God, she says, —what happened?

—It's okay, he tells her, —it was very close but he will be fine. I pushed, I was tough, I saved him, I would not be denied, I did not let anyone keep me from him.

In the morning he joins them for breakfast. Then he goes to college. Begins work. Falls in love. Finds peace.

He hears her wake up, sit up, and look around, startled. She puts her feet on the floor and stands, opens the door and looks out and listens. He watches her then close the door again and come back to bed.

—You forgot, he says.

She says, —I did not know why I was in his room or where he was. I did not know why all these people are out there. For a few seconds, I forgot. And it was wonderful, it was so wonderful. But I did not know it was wonderful until I had remembered again and those few wonderful seconds were already gone.

—Take another pill, he says.

She says, —Let's take them all.

He does not say anything in reply. It is too good an idea. His not agreeing that it is a good idea is all that prevents them from doing it.

She takes one pill, then drinks water while he rubs her back watching her. She swallows, puts down the glass on Clayton's night table, and says, —Don't touch me.

He stops touching her.

—Everything feels horrible. Everything tastes horrible. She pulls her feet into the bed, curls her knees to her chest. He is careful not to touch her. They lie on their sides facing the door through which Clayton might walk in in his pajama pants, shirtless and grumpy, groaning,
What y'all doin' in my bed?

She says, —The air. My tongue. My teeth. The water. Horrible, horrible, horrible.

He says nothing.

—This will never not be happening, she says, —will it?

He says, —No.

—It will always be, won't it?

—Always.

—And they won't even tell us what happened. Then she is silent again. The sedatives have worked quickly. Now that he has taken care of her, his pain may come. It comes searing. The bones hurt deep in their insides, their marrow quivering and cut.
It is your fault,
a voice tells him.
You have killed him. Now kill yourself.
Lies there hurting and crying until he hears cars and voices outside on the street, which he takes to mean it was night and now it is morning and here is another day they must live through. He kisses her and gets out of Clayton's bed and leaves the room, taking the bottle of sedatives with him.

Everyone has long ago left and cleaned all the dishes and put away all the chairs and packed away all the food and arranged and watered all the flowers in vases. They even vacuumed and mopped. Their home has not been this clean in years. All the curtains are closed. Voices and activity and light are behind them. He goes to one, peeks out. Hundreds of people are out there, even more than yesterday. A little boy holding a sign that says
JUSTICE FOR CLAYTON: REPEAL THE
2
^nd
AMENDMENT
with a picture of Clayton on it. It is one he has never seen before. Where did it come from? The boy sees him in the window and points at him and says something to his mother, who looks too, and the handyman closes the curtain and steps away from the window.

Takes a shower. Uses Clayton's bodywash, the heavily perfumed kind that gives him a headache but Clayton uses because the advertisement reveals that girls are unable to control themselves around boys who use it. Clayton's razor hangs beside his own, from the hook. He began shaving just last winter. They went to Duane Reade together to pick out the razor for him, then went home and he showed him proper technique. From then on Clayton has been shaving every morning; it does not matter that there is nothing to shave, he does his neck, jaw, chin, cheeks, over and over the same
spots to make sure he did not miss anything,
using all my shaving cream up too
, the handyman thinks,
keeping his mother and me locked out of the bathroom. Drove me out of my mind some mornings. I should use the razor to open my wrists
, he realizes. But her. He turns off the water, dries, dresses, returns to his wife.